


It's a Joke.

by Shiplockrewrites



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clubbing, Dear Mark Gatiss, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03, hush darling hush, i support and stand with moftiss but sometimes, not subtle references to things, things said about johnlock and the people saying them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3113264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiplockrewrites/pseuds/Shiplockrewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a joke. At least it was supposed to be one. As John stands in the client’s office and listens to Sherlock confirming the lie he can’t help but think of how the night started and how the joke that never really was a joke has caused this new rift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Joke.

It was a joke. At least it was supposed to be one. As John stands in the client’s office and listens to Sherlock confirming the lie he can’t help but think of how the night started and how the joke that never really was a joke has caused this new rift. But it’s fine. It is. He’ll get over the lies again. Won’t he?

 

***

 

 Two months after Moriarty (or rather those claiming to be him) was dispatched. Two months after Mary was sent into witness protection with her child (not John's as it turns out). Two months after John moved back to 221B feeling like a failure. He and Sherlock were on a stakeout. Or more accurately a sit and watch people have fun while Sherlock and he nursed drinks, saw people pour through the club, several people in fact. Many laughing and talking loudly at the bar. Even more people on the huge dance floor. A DJ spinning tunes with heavy bass beats and crowd pleasing melodies kept everyone happy. In a way it was interesting. The club, a gay club previously but the new owner wanted to diversify so he'd introduced _Straight arrows and Cupid's night,_ was filled to the brim. People came and left and came back again with more people and more vigor. Everyone drank and laughed and danced about. They leaned their heads back and forth with the groove. New comers came in and pointed at the ever-changing colors of the glow in the dark ceiling.  Those who’d been there a while found their pull and went off to dark corners to do dark deeds.  Still every time the DJ called out, “Who loves Straight Arrows and Cupid’s night at The King’s Men?”It seemed as if everyone in the club screamed their agreement at full force.

 

 John had no idea what the name meant but it did seem to bring in a cross section of clientele including a serial killer who seemed to enjoy the variety. A favor was called in. Sherlock, for some reason, didn't question why his brother knew a night club owner and took the case without fight. John figured it was for many reasons--payback to Mycroft for helping John obtain the rushed divorce, to get them both out of the flat again, to help John pay some bills. The fee they were being offered was enough to cover all of John's debts that surrounded selling a flat in a bad economy.

 

So stand they did. John nursed his scotch for as long as he could before giving in and asking for another. He turned back to the crowd while trying not to attract attention for being out of place. He leaned forward against the bar in his most casual stance and glanced over at Sherlock who was leaning against the bar on his back. His elbows perched on the bar, a drink in his hands , and Sherlock looked completely the part.  John was in slacks and a simple black shirt that Sherlock had tossed him before they left. Sherlock was in jeans, the kind that hugged your hips loosely but just right, and a black t-shirt. Tight across his chest of course. John had felt the material as Sherlock brushed past him on their way out of the flat. Soft. Sheer. You could see the definition of Sherlock's chest clearly.

 

Sherlock downed his third fruity mixer of the night and darted his eyes around the place. John earlier asked why he'd switched from his standard scotch. Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and said he was trying to fit in and he said John should try to do the same. And he tried. He did. But clubs were never his thing. Every so often when he was trying to pull then he might find himself inside one but he never enjoyed it. It wasn’t the loud music or the incredibly expensive drinks, it was the feeling of disconnection. That no one was truly themselves in those places. And honestly it was all bullshit. These days, after a failed marriage to someone who lied to him, after being made to believe his friend was dead for two years, after finding out that he couldn’t really trust anything he found that bullshit really wasn’t something he had patience for anymore.

 

But he was there because Sherlock was there and if Sherlock was there then he’d be there standing by his side. If only to protect the git from getting drunk and getting himself into trouble. John still remembered his stag night and the way Sherlock caused trouble once he’d had a few too many. Sherlock definitely would’ve gotten punched a time or twenty if John hadn’t been there.

 

“Are we,” John started to speak. Sherlock leaned in close to hear. His nose brushed against the shell of John’s ear and an involuntary gasp escaped from John’s lips.  He bit his lip and for some reason an image of Sherlock sucking him off flashed through his mind.  He flushed at the thought. It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t.

 

“What were you saying?” Sherlock said and seemingly didn’t notice anything that had just happened. The spark fizzling before it reached Sherlock or perhaps thrown away again, dismissed, or never acknowledged. John doesn’t know. He shook his head as if to erase the image from his mind and continued.

 

“I said are we sure the killer will be here tonight?”

 

Sherlock scoffed and his baritone filled John’s ears as he leaned in close to explain. “Of course he will, John. The pattern. It fits the pattern. Weren’t you listening when I explained the patterns?”

 

John wasn’t listening then, but he says, “Right. Pattern.”

 

Sherlock leaned back from John and then tapped on the bar to order another ridiculously named drink. John turned back to the crowd, sighed. It was going to be a long night.

 

***

 

At half past ten the place was even more packed. Sherlock and John were mashed up against each other by the throng of people constantly stepping into their space to order drinks. To John’s left a couple was making good use of one bar stool. It impressively withstood the weight of two blokes who were about a minute from putting their hands down each other’s pants. To Sherlock’s right a group of girls were taking body shots and cheering loudly every time another shot was downed.

 

And Sherlock and John stayed. They couldn’t really talk. Not unless they were shouting loudly. As they didn’t want to alert the criminal to their presence they resorted to sending each other texts every so often. Each time John felt like they should pack it in and head home, a message from Sherlock would vibrate on his phone.

 

**_The killer feels removed from society and gatherings like these are awkward to him or her. Most likely a him though given the evidence on the first body and the ability to lift these bodies into the graves. SH_ **

 

**_They will most likely not participate in any dancing or conversation. SH_ **

****

**_Won’t be a part of a group. Or if he is then it will be two. Possibly two killers working together. SH_ **

****

**_Most likely will stand off to the side, just scanning the crowd for his next victim. SH_ **

****

**_Will fit the demographic between 35-50. SH_ **

****

 

At this John texted Sherlock that they fit the profile. Sherlock looked up from his phone and mouthed ‘Oh.’

 

And this was when John got the idea. Though it was supposed to be for a bit of a laugh. John placed his glass on the bar, leaned into Sherlock’s space and said, “Should we dance then? So we don’t look like two old serial killers?”

 

But Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. John expected him to laugh it off. But he didn’t.  He took a step back and looked dead on at John. His eyes widened. His mouth fell open. He looked shocked. John wasn’t sure if Sherlock had heard something else. So he took Sherlock’s arm to guide him back into hearing distance. “It was a just a jo—“

 

“Yes, please. Dance with me, John,” Sherlock said then placed his drink on the counter and grabbed John’s hand. John looked down at their grasped hands then up to Sherlock. Something had happened between his joke suggestion and Sherlock’s answer but he wasn’t sure what.

 

Sherlock tugged John’s hand and led him to the dance floor. They were moving through a sea of bodies all undulating and moving with the beat. The song flowing over the whole of the place and drowning everyone in the need to simply move. They reached the dance floor quickly but Sherlock kept moving forward, as if he wanted them on to a specific spot. John looked around for help but from what he didn’t know. He got back no looks. Nothing. No one was looking at them. And he realized what must be happening. Sherlock must’ve realized this was the best vantage point to spot the killer. Then Sherlock finally stopped.

 

They seemed to reach the center of the continually swelling mass of dancing bodies. And in the center of the dance floor, with absolutely no one watching, Sherlock turned around to look at John.  He gave

John the biggest and most honest smile (really grin) that John had ever seen on Sherlock’s face. Then Sherlock began dancing. His hips moved from side to side. He swayed along to the rhythm of the song. John stood. Unmoving. Fixed to the spot. His eyes unsure of where to go. He unsure of what to do.

 

“Come on!” Sherlock said with a smile then placed his hands on John’s hips to take over for John’s apparently inability to find the beat. John began moving then. He danced. It wasn’t something he often did so he was a bit stiff but he tried. Sherlock dug his fingers into John’s hips to direct him and then John found the rhythm. Finally.  And so he moved and grooved. And giggled. And he danced with Sherlock.

 

“Good,” Sherlock shouted. At this John looked up at him and beamed. Sherlock smiled back and continued dancing. The 1-2, 1-2 beat of the heavy bass song kept its rhythm. Sherlock closed his eyes. He swayed back and forth and leaned his head back as if he was basking in the sun. The look on his face seemed to be pure content.

 

John had seen this look on Sherlock’s face but before it was with a case that was completely fascinating or with an answer that was glittering on the edge of understanding. But he’d never quite seen this look when he was so close to Sherlock’s face.  And never before, John realized , had he noticed the way Sherlock bit his lip as if he was biting back a moan. As if he needed more, wanted more, and was desperate to get it.  

 

At this John noticed the club’s owner moving toward the DJ Box. He didn’t want to give their game away but he knew what Sherlock needed then and wanted to get it for him. He simply raised his thumb a few times. The club owner understood and leaned over to seemingly tell the DJ something. A few seconds later the music was ever louder. John could feel the pulsing, vibrating beat in his chest. The crowd screamed their appreciation.

 

Sherlock’s eyes popped open at the increase in volume. He seemed to take in a breath. He stared at John for a moment then shook his head with a grin. As if John was a marvel. As if John had given him the world. He then closed his eyes again and continued dancing. A fine sheen of sweat was on his forehead, once bouncy curls sticking to him.  John noticed one bead of sweat poised to travel down into Sherlock’s eyes. John reached out to stop its movement. His hand had barely touched Sherlock’s brow when Sherlock’s eyes popped open again. He stopped moving, his hand caught John’s and held on. Sherlock stared at John as if he was seeing something, everything.

 

“John.” Sherlock seemed to say but John couldn’t hear a thing. John eyes darted to Sherlock’s mouth to try to read the next words but Sherlock said nothing else. And really it didn’t matter what Sherlock said because John knew the answer would be yes. John nodded his head just once before Sherlock swooped down and kissed him. John, in the most ineloquent move he’d made since he was on the dance floor, stumbled back a bit before he returned the kiss full force. Sherlock’s tongue licked in and found space in John’s mouth.  And John retuned the kiss even more so. Loving the way Sherlock’s tongue curled against his. A filthy sound moved through John, matched only by a desire that seemed to settle over his entire body.  

 

John moaned low and easy. Moaned with no reserve. He moaned because God it felt bloody amazing. He moaned because he wanted. He moaned because Sherlock moved his hands down to the waist of John’s trousers and yes ,just yes, anything, everything, yes.  They received a few ‘ _whoos’_ from around them and Sherlock pulled back, darted his eyes around from the owner to the bar and back again.

 

“Come on,” he said. He grasped John’s hand and started to move them from the dance floor.

 

“Sherlock, what?” John said. He wasn’t sure where they were going, what just happened, and most importantly-- why he was harder than granite right now. But Sherlock didn’t hear him or didn’t care to answer so John let himself be led away from the dance floor. They reached the “EMPLOYEES ONLY” door then Sherlock stopped. He leaned down into John’s space, moved his mouth to John’s ear and ran his tongue over the shell. John fuckin shivered like he’d just came. Like it was a cold day and he’d just gotten colder. Like he dipped himself into a bath and was covered in warmth. Hot and cold and on the edge. John’s hands settled on Sherlock’s waist and pulled him closer. He licked a swipe up Sherlock’s neck and gave a satisfied hum of excitement. A quick bite near  Sherlock’s chin, then he darted his tongue out to soothe it over.  He heard Sherlock gasp next to his ear and the sound was mesmerizing, sexy, perfect. It was breathy and settling and was John’s most favorite sound in the world.  Though he’d heard it from many before, a sound of pleasure given directly into his ear, when Sherlock did it, John’s mind filled with a hundred images and ideas which all featured the words “want” and “now.”

 

“Wait here,” Sherlock said and detangled himself from John. John nodded then licked his lips. Sherlock licked his as well and turned to leave.  John leaned back against the door at that. Completely and totally turned on and getting hard to the point of pain. No one was looking at him so he tried to adjust himself. Tried to make it look less obvious in case someone notice the tent in his pants.  He watched Sherlock walk away, swallowed up in the crowd. At first he could still make him out by finding his bobbing curls but then he was gone and that gave John time to think. Is he drunk? He had to ask himself because before today he’d never thought he’d be kissing Sherlock. It was a joke. Some people thought they were together but he and Sherlock laughed about it.  They even joked about it. John was straight. Sherlock was Sherlock. But never the twain shall meet, in bed at least. But he couldn’t lie to himself. Not when right now the only thing John wanted was Sherlock. Or maybe he just needed to fu-

 

“Come on,” Sherlock was back. He moved past John and opened the employee’s door. John followed close behind and shut it after giving a glance back. The music immediately turned into a muted beat. So much less than it was before.  The heat between them seemed muted as well.  They no longer clasped hands and for some reason John felt a bit bereft of the touch. As if when Sherlock left, he left what was happening behind.

 

“What are we doing back here?” John asked.

 

“I feel I may have mislead you a bit, John.” Oh. Oh. Was it a game?  It _was_ a joke.

 

“Right,” he said. “So that was….,” John said. Letting it hang in the air. Sherlock would pick it up. He always did.

 

“A lie, yes. Sorry.” Sherlock said without turning back, “Okay here we go.”  They nipped into a small office. Sherlock walked over to a desk and pulled out a torch from the top drawer. “We are looking for a flash drive. It should be here. I’ll replace it with the duplicate.”

John couldn’t move. He wasn’t sure why. So it was a lie. A distraction most likely. Just to get them back here. So the kiss. The dancing. The touches. The heated looks.

“It was a lie,” John said. “All that. All of that was a lie?” John’s voice seemed to rise with each word. Again he was lied to. Again he was made to want something and then told he wasn’t getting it. Most likely because he was fool enough to want it in the first place.

“John, be quiet. It was only so we wouldn’t give the game away. Now look with me. We don’t have long. He moves it around but it should be here tonight. He’d want it close by.  How long does coitus usually last?”

“I don’t.” John still couldn’t move.  Utterly confused and stuck and pissed off. Finally he shook his head and tried to help. “It was a joke. It’s fine. Okay.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock whispered. “Oh! There! The books!” John’s eyes fell on the bookcase behind the desk. Sherlock ran long fingers over each book. Three shelves of what looked to be old Encyclopedia Britannicas and completely out of place in a trendy club.  Sherlock pulled out a stack ,sat them to the side. He picked up one, flipped through it, and sat it aside. He continued with three more books before saying “Aha!”   He lifted a small flash drive from the cut-out pages of the book then pocketed it with a smile. He replaced the drive with a duplicate from his pocket and put back each of the books in place.

“The deaths were faked you see. Well. Real deaths. Just none of them occurred here or had any connection to this place. A lie.”

“Oh,” John said. “What?”

“Keep up, John. A lie. A hoax. Mycroft needed to find out more information on the owner of this place. He has ties to terrorist funding. But he couldn’t get in here. And what does club owners fear? Bad publicity about the club.  People dying not good publicity. Well it’ll bring in a certain clientele but after that the business would never recover. So we borrowed a few bodies, had the papers run a few stories linking their deaths to the club. It was only a matter of time before they came to me to solve it.  That gets us in the club. Gets us access to these back areas and gets us the drive showing us his real books including the money laundering.” Sherlock smiled. It was a huge grin, the one that always crossed his face when he’s finally solved it.

John wanted to punch him. “And you couldn’t tell me that before why?”

“Well. You often give up the jig. It’s kind of your thing.”

“I do NOT give up the jig!” John shouted. 

“Your voice, John.”

“They already know we’re back here. Isn’t that how you got the key? So what does it matter?”

“They think we’re fucking, John.”

“Because that was part of the lie too. Well done. Cheers. I’m going home.” John started towards the door with shame, embarrassment, and a deflated ego trailing behind him.

“No,” Sherlock said. He moved from around the desk and quickly stepped into John’s space. His hands immediately settled on John’s hips and on the back of John’s head. Sherlock tipped John’s head back and then kissed him. John did not kiss back. He wasn’t going to do this again. He pushed Sherlock back.

“What are you doing?”

“Finishing what we started out there.”

“Sherlock, we’re not. We don’t. Didn’t you say it was a lie? A ploy to get us back here?”

“I said the story about the deaths was a lie. Me kissing you and you getting hard is not a lie. It’s a revelation.” Sherlock pulled out a small bottle of lube and tossed it to John who caught it without pause. “So shall we get on with it?” At that Sherlock pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the small couch in the corner of the office. As he unzipped his pants, he walked over to the door and locked it. “I told the owner that we’d solve the case free of charge if he lets us live out our fantasy of doing it in a club office. He jumped at the chance.”

“What are you? What are you talking about, Sherlock?” John shook his head. Dropped the lube to the floor.  He wasn’t sure what had happened. It was a joke. Sherlock had said.  A lie.  But now Sherlock had started to undress and oh hell.

Sherlock pulled off his trousers and he had no pants on underneath. He kicked off his shoes and toed out of his socks. He stood there fully nude. His lips parted. His erect cock flush and bobbing up against his stomach. And then John noticed that despite them only kissing a bit, Sherlock was already leaking. Clear liquid beading at the top, leaking for John.

John’s mouth watered. He let out a small moan that turned into a strangled groan because he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Or what he wanted.  They entered this club as two friends. Flat mates just out and about for a bit of crime solving. Nothing more. And okay perhaps he’d considered it before. The connection couldn’t be denied.  But he wasn’t gay. Was he? Maybe he was a little bi. Can you be a little bi? Is he just that hard up? And if they did this could they go back? Would he want to go back? Is a relationship with Sherlock even possible? Did he want it to be possible? Would it be chasing criminals and unhealthy takeout and nearly dying? Would he be fucking Sherlock one minute then shooting someone to protect Sherlock the next? What would he do the next time Sherlock left him alone for two years? And what about children? Doesn’t he want children? And would that mean he’d give up being a--?

 

“John, stop,” Sherlock said. He stepped close to John. Wrapped his arms around John’s neck. Rolled his hips so John could feel his cock pressing insistently through one thin layer of cloth. “We’re not deciding anything tonight. We’re just finally giving in to years of sexual tension. We’ll figure the rest out later. You want me. Don’t you?”

The sound that John made was supposed to be a simple yes. What came out was a guttural sound that seemed to be the culmination of years of confusion, desire, and yes lust. So much lust.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Sherlock said. “So. I’ve solved the case. He’s expecting the place to be a bit mussed. And more than I’ve ever wanted anything, I want to suck your dick. Tomorrow then? Can we have the crisis tomorrow?”

The muted sounds of the dance floor floated back them and intermingled with their heavy breathing and the music seemed to swell louder just at that moment and John wanted, he wanted so much.  

At so John kissed him. Because he wanted to kiss him. He also wanted to touch Sherlock everywhere. So  he did. John’s hands raked over every available inch of Sherlock’s body. His old tried and true touches were shoved out the window as there were no breasts to touch but as John’s hands moved over Sherlock’s chest, he found a nipple and twisted it.  Sherlock broke the kiss. John felt Sherlock’s arms shiver, His hips jerked forward, and without pause, John reached out and gave Sherlock’s cock a stroke.

“Oh, God. Oh.” Sherlock leaned forward. Pressed his body closer to John. Let out a sharp, high needy moan that sounds beyond desperate.

John stoked Sherlock with a firm, tight grip with a twist at the head, hoping that what he liked would be enjoyed by Sherlock. The feel of Sherlock’s cock in his hand while Sherlock’s moans filled the room was straight out of John’s dirtiest wank fantasies. Sherlock fell forward. His knees seemed to give and John lost his grip. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “I just…sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” John gave him a lop-sided grin and reached out to touch Sherlock again. The need to make Sherlock come became the most important thing in John’s world.

Sherlock then found his footing and pulled John close again, making them flush and connected with no space for air or hesitation.  But this isn’t enough for John who is on an exploration to touch more, find more, make Sherlock moan more. His hands travelled to Sherlock’s backside to grip and push Sherlock ever closer. Lifting Sherlock’s leg so Sherlock can slot his cock just right and find an angle with more friction. And this, John remembered, is where his dirtiest of fantasies involving Sherlock usually end because it’s already more than he thought he would ever get and far, fare more than he deserves of this enigmatic man who saved him again and again. John rolled his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth and allowed his tongue on an eager, questing search to feel Sherlock from the inside. To taste him deep. This seemed to effect Sherlock more than anything John had done tonight and so he moved his hands to either side of Sherlock’s face, stills them there and puts all his effort into kissing Sherlock and making him understand everything John can never bring himself to say.  As the glide of John’s tongue finds a rhythm he changes tactic, brings out every trick he’s learned. Every curve and roll that makes his partners gasp. And it works on Sherlock too. Sherlock, whose hands were busy unzipping John’s trousers paused. He seemed to be downing in the kiss. His moans loan and needy. He whimpered and his knees seem to go weak again. John smiled and broke the kiss. Leaned their foreheads together. Tried to speak, but all he could say was “Good?”

Sherlock’s eyes popped open just so he could roll them at John.

“Well alright.”

 

John removed his hands from Sherlock’s head and moved Sherlock’s fumbling hands out of the way. He unbuttoned, lowered his zip, kicked off his shoes. In all of this, Sherlock closed his eyes again. Seemed to be thinking. John can’t have that so he kisses him again. Brings Sherlock to the present, the here , and now of them together finally.

He leans in and places a closed-mouth kiss on him. Simple, chaste slow. It is Sherlock who opens his mouth to explore this time and John opens at Sherlock’s request.  Sherlock then breaks the kiss, seems to have business in mind, and leans forward to lick a swipe over John’s neck. His hands find purchase on John’s hips only for a moment before he pulls down John’s pants and trousers all in one go.

John looks down as Sherlock looks up. Their eyes meet and John can’t stand it. Doesn’t want to stand it because he wants this more than he can ever say.

“Sher,” John says. He couldn’t say more. Sherlock would know. And Sherlock did.

Sherlock leans forward, lets the head of John’s cock rub over his lips. Let’s the pre-come smear over them. And even in the dim light of the office, John and see his lips are glossy and beautiful and John is thinking about kissing again when Sherlock takes one hand to fondle John’s balls and then swallows John down. John feels the movement of Sherlock flattening his tongue,  then Sherlock hums and John sees the stars, the universe, and the whole of his life all in go.   John is biting his lip and hoping it won’t leave a permanent dent when Sherlock takes him in deeper, deeper until he can feel Sherlock’s nose touch the base of his groin and just—

“God Sherlock. You. I. You,” John says. There are probably more eloquent ways to get it across to Sherlock but that is all he has for him right now. Then Sherlock took one of John’s limp hands and placed it on the back of his head. John took the hint and pulled just a little, this caused Sherlock to moan loudly and obscenely and yes, please more of that. So John pulled harder. John closes his eyes then. Tries to focus on the sensation and not the bloody gorgeous view of Sherlock with his mouth wrapped around John’s cock for fear of coming too soon.  But his eyes spring open to chance a quick glance. At that same time Sherlock seemed to sense him and looked up. Their eyes met and in an unspoken conversation they seem to agree that they both wanted more.  Sherlock pulls off with a wet pop and reaches for the lube that had fallen on the floor. He coats both hands and then reaches forward for John again. John simply waits then watches as Sherlock’s one hand moves to his own ignored cock. And John decides to help. He starts to lower himself to the floor and reaches for Sherlock when Sherlock shakes his head no. So John stands up again. Sherlock takes John’s cock back in with no preamble.  And the onslaught is magic to John. Perfect. Everything. John’s hand settles on Sherlock’s head , he holds and gives gentle tugs as Sherlock’s free hand goes to John’s backside. John feels his fingers questing between his buttocks. Feels the press of Sherlock’s finger on his  hole and John knows there is nothing he wouldn’t trust Sherlock with so he breathes out, “please.”

And he needed it so much. He wanted it. He wanted everything Sherlock was offering. He wanted Sherlock to wring out every bit of pleasure for him.  And God he wants to come thinking about every moment of this night. Of finally giving in, of the end of the denial, of the end of the joke.

It was never a joke was it? Because every time they joked about it there was always a moment in which they both had to look away and pretend that this wasn’t there. But it was and it was something glorious. In thinking of the sensation and magic of it all, John didn’t notice Sherlock’s hand which had travelled even further. But then Sherlock dips one lubed fingertip into John’s hole. Then out again. He pressed at John’s hole, uses the tip to massage it gently and then enters. John had never tried this. Never did this. Never knew how amazing it could be but now all he wanted was--

“More,” he says. “More.” He’s panting like a dog now and he knows it.  Doesn’t care one blip that he’s begging Sherlock for this. Sherlock immediately answers his request. Dipping his finger in more, letting the warm lube guide his finger into John’s tight opening. Caressing him and then dear God that has to be his prostate.  John couldn’t hold it back. “Oh God,” he says.

 He comes thrusting in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock removes his finger and uses his hands to hold John’s hip firm as Sherlock swallows him in further, working to wring every ounce of his orgasm out. John whites out on the gloriousness of it all, the pure majesty of this moment. He can’t feel anything but praise for Sherlock.

John couldn’t stand any longer and fell to the floor on his knees. He leans his head forward to Sherlock’s shoulders, takes many breaths trying to calm himself.  But he can still feel It, impossibly, he can still feel Sherlock’s fingers inside him. His tongue on his cock. He dribbles a little more come out. He blearily opens his eyes to see Sherlock looking down at John’s leaking cock, as if he’s sad to have missed a drop. Then Sherlock speeds up his strokes and before John can think to help,  Sherlock is coming saying, “Oh. John. John. Oh. John.O-”

John  swallows his next ‘oh’ with a kiss.  He takes a slow kiss this time. And it feels different from every kiss that night and every kiss John had ever experienced in his life. He pulls off and looks at Sherlock who still seemed to be happily stuck in the afterglow. Gone from the world with no eta on his return. John has no desire to disturb him so he kisses Sherlock’s neck, finds a home and sucks a spot marking his territory. It is something he realizes he’s been wanting to do since about two hours after meeting Sherlock.  He  finds that he could happily do this for hours, days, years, a lifetime.

 Sherlock, intent on ruining John’s plans to live in the crook of his neck, begins to stir. He moves a hand to the small of John’s back and rubs a circle.

“I…I think. Um. I-”

“Dear lord,” John says with a grin spreading out to the whole of his face. “You’re just a normal bloke who just wants to have a kip after aren’t you?”

“No I,” Sherlock yawns. It is small and contained at first then it overtakes him, shows how truly tired he must be. “I’m just relaxed. I’ve not slept for 3 days. Planning this whole. You know. And --”

“And you’ve  come and now you want to sleep. Normal bloke. You. God. If I’d known how to shut you up, I’d have shagged you ages ago.”

At this Sherlock leans forward. John catches him. At first just to hold him up but then he embraces him tightly, won’t let go, traces the scars on Sherlock’s back and makes a promise to himself to never let another scar etch into Sherlock’s skin unless John is there to patch him up again.

“Let’s get you home,” John says.

“Should we talk? I know you wanted to before but,” He pauses. Bites his lip. John sees a small bit of vulnerability. Wants to kiss it away. Never see it again. “I just didn’t want you to talk yourself out of it.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock. Everything’s fine.”

Sherlock smiles lazily. He understood. Of course he did. “Help me find my clothes,” he says with a tilt of his head and a shy grin.

“Okay,” John says. He isn’t sure why but he reaches out a hand, brings his fingertips to skirt over Sherlock’s chest. Presses his palm over the scar in the middle of his chest. Looks up into Sherlock’s eyes. Opens his mouth to say. To at least try to say it.  Sherlock closes his hands over John’s. Covers it. Massages John’s hand with his thumb.  Returns the stare. Returns the look of a beginning.   

“We can talk about the love thing tomorrow too, if that’s also fine?” Sherlock says.

John huffs out a laugh. “Alright.”

The end. 

**Author's Note:**

> This kinda falls apart at the end and I changed tense because I kept going back and forward on how I wanted it told. I might fix it one day. But I spent far too much time on this story and the editing would never end. Anyhoo hope it's not too horrible a read. I enjoyed a few aspects of it. And yes, kings men is from gatiss' novel and the joke is in reference to all the faffing about johnlock being a joke.


End file.
